Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 4 - BLOOD & DREAMS

Ruben's taillights fade as he motors quietly down Mornington Street. With him disappears the insanity of the night and leaves only one thing behind. Dahlia.

I repeat her name in my head like a voodoo chant conjuring a spirit. Her eyes burn deep into my soul, making me lust with a fierce rage. I should've gone back or not left or something, anything, and I certainly shouldn't have listened to Ruben. What if I never find her again?

A while passes before I realise I'm still standing on the pavement.

"Jesus, what's that?" I say as something brushes against my leg.

A black cat is circling my ankle and rubbing itself against my jeans. Its tail and back are arched up as it purrs into the night. I hiss at it, but the creature fears not. I nudge it away with a foot, but it beelines straight back, sits between my muddy kicks and stares ahead.

I forget about it, light my last cigarette and drag as I go back to Dahlia. I try to make her move, but she'll only stand frozen with her eyes the same colour as the Moon and just as bright.

A sharp pain stabs between my fingers. The cigarette has burnt down and scorched my skin, snapping me back to reality. The cat's vanished, and the drugs have worn off, flushed by giant lugs of adrenalin. Or perhaps they've been overpowered by a far more luscious stimulant. Dahlia.

The lift in my building wears a sign painted with a few jangly words, 'Broke. Use stairz'. The Slovak maintenance guy is up to his old tricks again. The steps look steeper than usual. I haul myself up the five flights with the last of my energy and carelessly knock on my flat door before remembering the only one that might answer is me.

I pour myself a whiskey and sit in the arched window sill, staring at the street where I've just been. The sun is beginning to splash across the upper layer of clouds on the horizon, turning them a purple-red. The ones overhead aren't so pretty. They're low, black and ready to burst. The rain starts a moment later and is heavier than I've ever seen. Out of the corner of my eye, a door opens on a red brick townhouse. The black cat from before jumps down from a concrete awning above the corner shop. It dashes along the pavement and through a gap where the owner is standing.

She clutches her dressing gown as a gust of windy ghosts rushes past. She scans the sky and formulates her own weather report. Then with a sixth sense, she swings her eyes straight at me as a chill runs through her. She shakes her head then slams the door.

The rain drives in hard for hours. The festival can't be faring well. And although most of it was under the protection of the dome, there was still an orbiting ring of food vans, clothing stalls, stages and beer gardens. Not to mention everyone coming and going, plus the entry and exit staff we got to know. In fact, we'd still be there if it weren't for the Death Squad. I can't curse them because they led me to something sublime. Dahlia.

My Samsung vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it, but it starts again. It's Ruben. Seven a.m. is a strange hour for him to be calling.

"Bonjour," I say with heavy eyelids.

"Ca va?" he asks in a lazy French accent.

"Cold. This rain is heavy."

"No fire?"

"Haven't stoked it yet."

"But you've been home for hours?"

"Got distracted," I say, launching into a thick yawn.

"Good night, lad?"

"Indeed," I say, breaking into a warm smile.

"Rambunctious."